Too Bloody Noble
by Innocent Magic
Summary: Fred Weasley and Hermione Granger, from the Quidditch World Cup through to the end. Sometimes, he wondered if she'd always needed somebody like him around. Previously called 'Mina'; very much book compliant.
1. Teenagers

**A/N**

Hi all,

I'm going through quickly with amended versions of each chapter. It's 99% the same as it was, but I've actually bothered to read through it and correct the mistakes here and there. I apologise for the huge wait you've had between chapters 9 and 10, but I think I'm almost there with it now. The on-the-run chapters are the hardest to get perfect. Thank you for reading and reviewing, though.

* * * Innocent Magic * * *

**Chapter 1: Teenagers**

_They were teenagers when they first met..._

The first time Fred and Hermione spoke was at the Quidditch World Cup. Okay, so they had spoken briefly before then; it wasn't as though the very first words exchanged between them were that gruff, rushed, "Into the forest, quick!" Yet, to the two of them, it was as though they'd never even seen each other before that night.

Tensions were high and Hermione could barely breathe for the terror that gripped her, standing there in the forest's near pitch-black clearing. She hugged her thin faded hoodie closer in an attempt to feel safer, less like a hunted deer. Nibbling her bottom lip agitatedly, she started to wonder if the others could see the huge target sign she felt she wore in that moment.

"Hermione?" came the voice of one of the twins. She couldn't tell which it was; she was sure there was likely some kind of difference, but since they were never without one another, she didn't see the need to know it. It was just as easy to reprimand without distinction.

"Oi, Granger," said the voice again, and this time a long, freckled nose and a pair of far too blue eyes swam into her vision too. "We need to get further into the woods. C'mon."

He extended a hand, whichever twin he was, and she took it, following him at speed into the mass of trees ahead. It was too dark to spot Harry, Ron, Ginny or anybody, really. She trusted the twin she was attached to, though – her rule in life had lately twisted around to always having faith in a Weasley – and so she clutched at his hand (a little calloused, she noticed, but warm) and scurried alongside him.

When a sound like an explosion sounded behind them (was that the campsite?), she appreciated more than he could know the gentle squeeze he gave her much smaller, daintier fingers.

It felt an age before they were able to slow down, finally stopping beside a flowering hedge. The noises of the battle with the Death Eaters were softened now, for which she was grateful. Her happiness grew even more when Ginny and the other twin hobbled into view.

"Alright, Gred?" her twin asked, sounding more sombre and sincere than she'd ever heard before.

"Yeah, we're alright, Forge." the other nodded. There was a glint in their eyes, that same glint they held before they pulled one of their ridiculous jokes at school, before they'd stepped into the fireplace with Harry, before they'd made that audacious bid with Mr Bagman. They looked bloody determined, and it had her shivering.

"Hey, Ginny?" she whispered tentatively. "Are you okay?" She felt protective of the girl, her not-quite-really little sister.

There was a small cough, which could have been a hiccup – or a sob? Soon, though, she heard the girl reply, "I think so. You?"

"I'm fine."

That was a lie. She was glad the moon was hidden behind thick clouds else she was sure the others would see the small tear tracks on her cheeks. Where in Merlin's name were Harry and Ron? If they'd gotten themselves hurt...

Hermione shut her eyes tight, screwed them closed as hard as possible in hopes the effort would distract her.

No, she could still hear the unmistakeable sound of people running, still just about make out the maniacal laughs of evil wizards torturing those poor, poor Muggles.

For once, she wished she wasn't such an avid reader, that she didn't have that damned eidetic memory. That way, she wouldn't know of Death Eaters and the things they'd done. She wouldn't know who they most loved to hunt and hurt. If she hadn't had read those stupid, awful, horridly factual books, Hermione could pretend she wasn't in immense danger just for the mishap of being born.

She began rocking back and forth, just slightly, just to stop the shivering. Her breath was coming in inaudible little pants now, chest constricting.

Almost pleasant, the painful tingling shooting up and down her rib cage. Almost pleasant, but also almost too much. Definitely too much -

A weight settled around her shoulder: a strong, heavy arm. It rubbed calming circles into the sleeve of her hoodie, drew her closer to the taller, stockier, warmer form of someone beside her.

Really, she should have been alert – there were people around her, maybe within just a few measly metres, who wanted to kill her. Instead, her eyelids relaxed. She inhaled slowly, and then exhaled.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale.

"Feeling better?"

Nod.

Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

It was peaceful, she thought, to bury her head in the shoulder of the person beside her and focus on nothing more than the most basic act of staying alive. Her resting post didn't move.

"'Mione?"

"Please don't call me that."

"Er, okay." Her post sounded confused. She couldn't blame him, but only Ron called her 'Mione' and that was only because, as the lone manner of affection for her he ever showed, she was reluctant to ask him to stop.

"Fred?" she murmured. There was a fifty-fifty chance she'd be correct –

"Yeah?" Inwardly, she cheered; Hermione really did enjoy being right.

"Do you know where Harry and Ron have gone?"

"Not a clue, love," he sighed. "Wonder Boy will be fine though. Try not to worry."

The large hand moved from her shoulder, then, to the small of her back, still rubbing soothing circles.

"Okay."

It wasn't okay, not really, but he was distraction enough to keep her going, keep her together until they might eventually come across his brother and the Boy-Who-Lived.

When they did discover them, entangled in an argument between Ministry personal, she was too exhausted to be livid. Despite everyone's assurances that the two would be alright, they'd managed to attract bother like two bloody moths – a dark mark, a house-elf and a rustling bush? It was as agonising as it was predictable.

Worse than that, it was fraying on Hermione's last nerve. Still, she plastered on a smile – big enough to convey relief, small enough to show respect for the severity of the situation – and followed the Weasleys back to their tents.

She didn't dare look up at the destruction of the campsite, though. She was sure she'd break if she did.

The night passed, but she didn't get any sleep. Flashes of green and red and that silly, stupid skull in the sky, and the frightened eyes of the poor house-elf – it all played across her mind as though she were front-row at the cinema. Her life would make a good horror film sometimes, she thought.

When morning came, they left early and in silence. Hermione's mind was elsewhere as they descended the hill, feet dragging along dew-soaked grass. She didn't hear the screech of Mrs Weasley as they trailed through the gates, didn't join in with the others (only the Hogwarts lot; the adults had disappeared at some point) as they talked about the night.

So out of it was she, she was the only one to remain at the kitchen table after the breakfast plates had been cleared.

And that was where Fred found her an hour later, still staring down at the table top, brows furrowed and face deathly pale. He'd popped into the room with full intention to grab a biscuit and run (afraid what his mother might say if she caught him snacking). The sight of the girl, though, looking so fragile: he couldn't leave that.

The scraping of his chair as he made to sit opposite did nothing to raise her gaze from the old pine table. Neither did his coughing, nor his hand waving under her expressionless face.

She was in shock.

As the realisation hit, he was up and around the table, one hand lifting her chin to face him and the other resting on her jean-clad thigh, before he had time to think the move through.

"Talk to me," he implored, staring into her innocent doe-brown eyes. "What's wrong?"

There was no reply, just blinking. Her stare stayed empty and her mouth didn't move from its slight frown.

He was beginning to think he'd prefer to be dealing with the previous night's panic attack than this. He'd seen the girl around; she'd seemed strong when he'd spotted her with his dunderheaded brother. It wasn't right that evil gits in dodgy masks could take the bravery away from a girl like that.

"You're a muggleborn, right?" he ventured. "So you're... scared?"

Still nothing. Silence unnerved Fred on the best of days; this was something horrid.

Then her leg twitched.

"Right, you're afraid. That's natural; they're all bloody mental, those Death Eaters." _That probably wasn't helping_, he chastised himself. New tactic: "But you've an army of Weasleys who'll protect you. You know that, yeah?"

Another twitch.

"Merlin, we've all got things we're afraid of – there's nothing wrong with not wanting to get too close to a bunch of pureblood supremacists." He paused. "Quite rational really."

Twitch the third.

"Better than dear Ronald and his spiders."

Finally, _finally,_she smiled. A tiny smile, the faintest glimmer of one if he was honest, but it was _something_. He breathed a sigh of relief inwardly. It was his and George's biggest failing, their reliance on other people's smiles.

"What about Harry?" she asked, eyes wide and trusting.

"What?"

"What would he say if he knew I can't let myself fall asleep in case I dream of them? He's faced You-Know-Who three times; he's faced a man he thought wanted him dead, a werewolf, and... and... he plays Quidditch!"

"Quidditch?"

"People die, Fred!" she hissed.

They didn't speak for a while, both concentrating on the grain of the table and the contrast in their hands. While his skin was rough and pale, hers looked like pure-spun honey.

Eventually, she murmured, "I'd disappoint Harry."

Fred snorted.

"You're too bloody noble for your own good, you know that?"

"Why's that?" she asked, crossing her arms defensively.

"Harry can stuff himself if he doesn't think his best friend's allowed to lose her knickers when Death Eaters turn up. We'd be more worried if you weren't afraid, Mina."

"Mina?" If there was anything Hermione Granger was good at, it was changing the subject.

"Better than 'Mione," Fred shrugged. If there was one thing Fred was good at, he learnt that day, it was making his Mina smile.


	2. Bugger

**Chapter 2: Bugger**

_Any other summer, they could have maybe tried to become something more..._

The summer after Hermione's fourth year, she couldn't deny there was a wee jolt of excitement that shot through her whenever Fred would pounce at her with a hug. He was an enigma the likes of which she'd never had in her life before. The Quidditch World Cup had changed everything for them; she'd finally gained a best friend who wasn't as dense as a cauldron-bottom.

Yet there was nothing she could do about the butterflies. He was out of her league entirely, and she had bigger problems on her mind than her crush: You-Know-Who was back; Harry was furious with everybody; and her days were filled with more cleaning and spying on the adults than on anything productive, even studying.

"Oi, Mina!" She raised her head from the draw she was dusting, to see Fred turning on the wireless in the corner. The sound of trombones and trumpets filled the small grimy room. His eyebrows were wiggling something ferocious as he strode purposefully towards her, arm outstretched.

"Care to dance, m'lady?"

Feeling that wonderful mix of ridiculous and special that filled her whenever she was around her twin, she gave a little curtsy. And suddenly, she was spinning in wild circles and laughing aloud, even as her hair came undone and whipped against her eyes with every abrupt movement.

She could see Ginny giggling and George giving a bizarre thumbs-up out of the corner of her eye as they spun around and around and around.

These kinds of events were not new. The Weasley twins weren't known for their ability to stick to one task, especially not one as mind numbing as clearing thirty sets of curtains of doxies. Whenever they heard their mum disappear down to the kitchen, Hermione became a fantastic source of distraction.

It was a small point on pride for Fred that it was only after _they_became friends that she started to loosen up like this more often. He made a point not to dwell on what else he'd like to loosen up about her, though. She was after Ron; that was common knowledge. He'd let them be, his only consolation that they could have moments like these.

The tune changed to something slower. That seemed as good a signal as any to quit. Out of puff, they took a seat under the window, legs out in front of them.

"You're really tall," she grumbled, taking in the good foot further his legs extended beyond hers.

"All the better for hugs," he smiled, pulling her close.

It was then that his stomach decided to growl somewhat unattractively. He didn't need to ask before Hermione was reaching into her pockets for a pack of Bertie Bott's beans. Some were thrown to the two Weasleys taking a break playing chess to the left of them (Ginny was winning, but only because she was George's favourite). The rest (the best: the reds and purples) were dropped into Fred's palm.

Words weren't needed for things like that; those habits had been picked up on over the past year. They were the perfect match –

"Bugger!"

Fred's exclamation had the whole lot of them jumping slightly. One hand was wrapped tightly around the other, lips pressed together, eyes squinting.

"Merlin, that hurt," he tried to laugh, but it was strained.

Hermione leant down to have a look, and recoiled slightly at the sight of blood. "Doxy bite?" she asked, taking the injured appendage onto her lap for closer inspection. Fred groaned at the unanticipated proximity to her legs.

"I presume so," he replied sheepishly. "Probably shouldn't have sat so close to those damned curtains, eh?"

Brown eyes rolled at his ill-timed attempt at humour, and pretty pouted lips muttered what looked like 'accio bag'. Fred saw neither of these, though; his focus was firmly on the feel of her fingers tracing lightly around his fingers. He hoped to old Godric's ghost that George was too involved in his sweets to notice. The titters he could hear from their small audience said otherwise – he was in for a bloody mess of teasing that night, he imagined.

His twin was well aware there was an attraction between Fred and his Mina (as if the little pet name hadn't given it away). There had been a point, a few months after their friendship had sprung up from that awful evening, where Fred had considered asking her to the Yule Ball. They'd have fun, was his reasoning. Interesting, pretty, brilliant fun.

George had caught him practicing sounding spontaneous in front of the mirror of their dorm one evening. The next, Fred had found out Mina had already agreed to go with someone else. It had set him back a pace or so, and he had to admit he was surprised there had been another guy who saw her shine too. He didn't like competition though. And when it had turned out that she was both more gorgeous than he'd realised, and at the same time the attraction of the world's most famous Quidditch player? Well that was surely a sign.

Going with Angelina had been a lark anyway. One night didn't mean anything in the grand scheme of things.

It didn't matter that he'd been a right grouch until he'd gotten a hug and a compliment from her. Nopes. He wasn't that much of a girl.

"Right," said Hermione brusquely, and he realised with an unpleasant jolt she'd summoned a vial of potion to cleanse and heal the wound.

The potion sizzled as the stopper was removed. He himself sizzled as it glooped out onto his bleeding welt that was growing larger and more painful at an alarming rate.

"Will you sit still!" she berated good-naturedly (he hoped). "You're not going to die, I promise."

"I know that," he groused. "Doesn't mean that potion's not evil."

More sniggers erupted behind him.

As she began to wind a bandage around the wound so that the vicious viscous liquid would stay on (and so Fred couldn't escape to wash it off as she was sure he was inclined), Hermione's face twisted into an uncharacteristic smirk.

"I can make it better?" she suggested quietly.

He didn't have time to process what came next: the quick dip of her back, the lowering of her lips to his hand, the kiss of her lips on his bandage.

Mouth slightly ajar, he just stared. Merlin, she was going to be the death of him.

Whipped was George's word of the moment. Tosser was Fred's.

"You'll have to keep it wrapped up for the rest of the afternoon, but you should pull through okay," she said, nibbling her bottom lip, eyes looking anywhere but into her patient's. A faint blush graced her cheeks. Healing was something she loved and was good at; it wasn't quite as fun when being so close to her charge had butterflies assaulting her insides. She was close enough to count his eyelashes if she so chose. She didn't choose, and didn't count.

She might have maybe spent a few seconds fantasising about getting a good hold of those lips.

Just a few.

Then there was the harried cry of Mrs Weasley calling the twenty or so assembled in the house down for lunch and the two were caught back up in the whirlwind otherwise known as 'the wrong place and the wrong time'.

Bugger, she thought. If he could have read her mind, Fred would have agreed.


	3. Seven

**Chapter 3: Seven**

_When they could, they'd escape the chaos together..._

Harry was being unfair; Ron was being obtuse; the adults were being short-sighted and, if she was honest, none of these were an excuse to be afraid again. These days, it seemed as if the only time she wasn't scared, when she didn't have Death Eaters and You-Know-Who plaguing her thoughts, was when she was with Fred.

Sighing, she put her book to the side. She wasn't getting any reading done anyway – the library at Grimmauld Place was filthy, filled with dust and dark magic. It gave her an unpleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Making a snapshot decision (she was getting better at those lately... spontaneity, the twins called it), she tiptoed down two staircases. If she wasn't stealthy, she worried, surely someone would hear and assign yet another cleaning task. Or, even worse, Harry and Ron could try to initiate another game of 'What do you think the Order are talking about?'

She didn't want to play that game. For once, there was something Hermione Granger didn't want to know. It was one thing too many.

"Fred?" she called quietly, knocking three times against his door. "You in there?"

It opened by itself, the heavy wood dragging horridly against the stale carpet that kept every room smelling of mothballs.

And when she stepped into the room, she saw what in that moment she thought might be the most brilliant thing she'd ever lay eyes on.

Because there on the floor in front of her were the Weasley twins. The utterly ridiculous, nonsensical, atrociously garbed Weasley twins: one twin doing a handstand in a pair of dress shoes while the other stood on a chest of drawers in his boxers and a bubble-head charm, arms out as if preparing to dive.

"What," she asked, losing her sentence to giggles. "What in Merlin's rotten knickers are you doing?"

She clutched at her stomach, physically shaking with happiness. Fred felt grateful he wasn't the one half-naked, though he also didn't feel too comfortable having his Mina ogling his brother's chest either. Was it good or bad to be identical in this situation?

It didn't matter. She had a bloody gorgeous laugh. Didn't look too bad upside down either; not many girls could pull the look off.

And when she'd calmed down somewhat and he and George had made themselves more presentable, she asked again what was going on, eyes sparkling like butterscotch. Merlin, he was turning into a pansy over the girl.

"We're cleaning," he said simply, grin in place.

"Quite obvious," added George.

They received a sceptical raised eyebrow and a smile Fred would later realise could only be described as downright saucy. Who knew the minx had it in her?

For her part, Hermione had no idea what took over when she was with Fred. He brought out a confidence in her to be herself, and a desire to be... more. It was liberating.

"Cleaning," she said, disbelieving.

The twins exchanged glances.

"Maybe not?" said George uneasily.

"Definitely not," agreed Fred.

Her smirk widened, angst already forgotten, curiosity taking over.

"So not cleaning?" she questioned.

"Close the door," said Fred in his most ominous voice, "and we'll fill you in."

As it turned out, they'd been inventing. There'd been a lot of that over the summer, though Mrs Weasley had made many attempts to snuff the creativity out of them. A tattered cardboard box disillusioned under George's bed showed the result of their efforts.

"That's bloody impressive," was all Hermione had been able to say when she laid eyes on the mini mountain of products. They all sat innocently enough, brightly coloured and very much still.

Until she'd picked one up and a shower of sparks had shot out, leaving painful red pinpricks along her arms.

It didn't deter from how proud she was of the twins – there was some really complicated magic going on. Fred didn't think he'd ever felt more fulfilled than when Mina's bright eyes, eyes which eagerly continued that gorgeous smile she wore on her lips, had looked up at him affectionately. Her reaction had been more than he could ever have hoped for.

That afternoon, hours after George had disappeared to hassle Alicia and Katie, Fred and his Mina lay on his bed listening to his wireless. They hadn't exchanged many words since the decision was made to turn on the music. It was that kind of day, one for lounging around and not thinking.

His and George's duvets had been fashioned into a sort of canopy, hanging from the ceiling to block out unwanted light. Grimmauld Place had the capability to ruin even the notion of sunlight, watering down the rays until it felt as though they lived in an old photograph. It sucked the life out of a person, if they let it.

Mina's head rested by his shoulder, their arms intertwined between them. Above them, Fred had conjured a series of small, pretty lights, which danced merrily to the crooners on the radio.

"This is nice," whispered Mina, inclining her head so as to face her friend. Her best friend. Her remarkable, inventive, incredible best friend. Not that she'd ever tell him; his head was already too big.

"Mmhmm," Fred agreed. And it was. For one rare moment, they were both at peace. No pixies. No Death Eaters. No wondering what was happening downstairs with the Order, and no thoughts of, well, anything.

"Play a game with me?" she asked, still speaking so quietly that Fred found himself straining to hear.

"What kind?"

"One my dad and I used to play whenever I was ill," she said. "When I'd get these really bad headaches where I couldn't open my eyes. I think it was the magic trying to get out."

Fred frowned, imagining a tinier, scrawnier, bushier version of the girl beside him lying in pain in a bed, not knowing why the aches wouldn't go away. He and George had gone through the same as children – so had Ron and Ginny, come to think of it, so maybe every wizard had them. His mother had given them some vile potion and set them loose on the garden gnomes to wear the magic down.

"How do you play?" he prompted.

"Give me your hand," she ordered, gathering it in her own before he had a chance to respond. After all the times they'd brushed against each other over the past year, she still felt those same shivers whenever skin touched skin. It made her feel rather foolish, really.

"Now what?" Merlin, when did his voice get so husky? She couldn't bring herself to look up at him, instead focusing solely on his calloused palm.

"I'm going to write a word," said Mina. "And you just guess what it is."

Bloody hell if that didn't send his mind into a whirl. In her innocence, he bet she didn't realise just how intimate – how_sensual_ – an act running his fingers over her hand could be.

"Go for it," he breathed. He wasn't sure he could get many more words out than that. Focus, he told himself.

Her fingertips were tracing almost lazily a pattern he could barely make out. "...H?" he ventured. "And... I?" Two soft taps, a confirmation he'd got it right, raised his pulse. "Hello to you too," he smiled. "My turn?"

"...T... ah! Fred, that tickles!" Hermione squealed.

"Sorry," he chuckled. "Pay attention now."

"T... R... O... L – Troll!" And she gave a tiny gasp of happiness.

"A... C... C... I... O. Book worm, you are. A spell?"

"Q... U... I... Oh, it's not Quidditch, is it?" she groaned. "You're obsessed, all you boys."

"Mina, you wound me! I could have been writing _quill_ for all you know."

"And I'm the book worm?"

"Take your turn, go on with ya." He let himself enjoy the sensation again, then, "M... I... N... A."

"Uhuh," she breathed. "I like when you call me that."

Fred grinned. "I'm glad you like the nick-name – it suits you. All alluring and spicy and fiery."

Wanting nothing more than to let her heart do the thinking for once, Hermione felt that familiar confusion. He was a natural flirt, Fred, and she let that affect her too much sometimes. She needed to grow out of her silly crush soon, because it worried her to no end how quickly it was blooming into more. That wouldn't do at all – she had OWLS coming up this year! No time for the distraction of boys, not even one who smelt as intoxicating as her twin.

"My turn." His voice broke her thoughts.

"S... E... V... E... N," she sounded out. "What?" That had nothing to do with anything, she thought. It was arguably the most powerful magical number, and it was the number of siblings in the Weasley family, but it didn't fit the pattern of their conversation. So what – oh. "It's your last year," she whispered dejectedly.

The hurt in her voice astounded him. He knew how _he_ felt; he'd grown more than attached to his little brunette in just one year. But September was looming and so was his final year at Hogwarts.

"We'll make the most of it, yeah?" he found himself saying. "Then you'll come sneak out of Hogwarts every day once I'm gone and come visit me and George at the shop."

"Shop?"

"You didn't think we were inventing things for the fun of it, did ya? We're going to sell them, from an actual shop. Maybe Diagon Alley, if we can afford it." Of course they could afford it, he thought. Their favourite Boy Wonder had seen to that – he'd never felt more indebted or in love. Well, maybe not that last one.

"I think you'll do great," she murmured sleepily, cuddling further into the crook of his neck.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

That was all, he decided then and there, he'd ever needed to hear.


	4. Night-time

**Chapter 4: Night-time**

_They stayed up all night, sometimes, alone against the world..._

Gryffindor's common room was a warm, inviting, cosy place usually. But it was gone midnight on a Wednesday evening in March, and the only light that remained came from the dying embers in the fireplace. Hands trembling, Hermione took a new position curled on her favourite squishy armchair – she'd been there for two hours already, and there was no point leaving just yet.

If she had to, she'd stay up until dawn.

She was waiting for the twins. Or if she was honest with herself (which she always was, just as long as it didn't involve Fred), she was waiting for one twin in particular. Stupid Malfoy and stupid Fred and stupid Umbridge with her stupid detentions, she grumbled.

Everyone in the castle knew what the foul woman was setting as punishments. On the table in front of her, Hermione had already laid out the bowls of Murtlap essence and some towels. Umbridge could push them as far as she wanted; Gryffindors were fighters.

That didn't mean she wasn't tired though. Maybe she could just... close her... eyes.

BANG!

The portrait hole slammed open, interrupting the girl's train of thought.

"I'm losing it, Forge," George was grousing. "How much longer are you dragging this out?"

"Soon, Gred, but I need more time. I need – Mina!" Fred's furtive tone turned to an exclamation of surprise as he took in her cat-like form by the fire. She was still tiny as ever, he thought.

"I waited up," she yawned, unfolding herself to beckon the twins over. No one said a word as she took their hands and placed them carefully into the bowls of soothing liquid. Nor when she sat back in the sofa to observe the two boys. "You were foolish, you know that?" she said.

Inside, Fred was torn between wanting to argue that that didn't change anything, that they'd still have defended their mother's honour whether or not they'd known they'd be in detention the entire year, and agreeing with her.

"So what?" He settled on confrontational. There was a lot of anger in him that needed letting out.

"So you're playing into the bitch's hands, that's what," Hermione fumed.

"Playing into –" he spluttered. "We're doing nothing of the sort!"

"What do you call all those pranks?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Stress relief."

"And speaking out in class?"

"Standing up for what's right."

"What about trying to pummel the git out of Malfoy then?" her voice was growing shriller now. If she wasn't careful, she'd wake the whole tower. But he just wasn't getting it, wasn't understanding why she was so annoyed!

"He insulted our mother, Mina! What would you want us to have done?"

"You could have –" she tried.

"I supposed you'd have me writing him a nice letter, eh?"

"No, but –"

"Or maybe we could take a leaf out of your book next time and just give him one nice girly slap."

"Fre –"

"Oh, I know –"

"FRED, WILL YOU SHUT UP!" Hermione had had enough. They'd somehow ended up standing, during that tete-a-tete, while George had discreetly disappeared. She was genuinely thinking of pulling one of those slaps right there; he wasn't thinking at all.

"Granger," he growled. "Listen here, because I'm going to tell you this once." She gulped, eyes wide and just a little bit afraid. "There is no way in hell I'm letting that toad of a woman pull this sort of medieval bull on innocent students. This is how George and I stand up to her. She doesn't scare us. Got it?"

She nodded, and a cold wash of shame passed over her. There hadn't been a reason to get into a fight. Bloody Umbridge was managing to create rifts and tensions without even having to be there now.

"Can I say one more thing before I apologise?" she asked, voice wavering. He didn't make any move at all, and she took this as a sign she could go on. "You worry me."

"And you sound like my mother."

"I give up!" she huffed. Immature little twit, was her best friend. Lacked any capability to be serious.

"I'm sorry, Mina," he sighed. No he wasn't, and they both knew it. He was sorry for making her mad, sure, but that wasn't what sorry meant – he couldn't guarantee, not one bit, that if the same topic came up again he wouldn't react just as awfully. There were few things Fred Weasley cared about enough to get into real, furious arguments about. Insults to family, and unfairness toward the vulnerable were two of them. Umbridge had shown both.

Still, it was the gesture that counted, right? He held his arms out hopefully, inviting his Mina into a hug. She looked a wreck.

Hermione gave a sniff. "I really don't want to forgive you," she muttered, and he poked her side gently for her cheekiness. "But just because it's you, I'm sorry too."

"Thank you," he whispered against her hair. The temptation was there, again, to go the whole hog and plant a kiss on those lips hidden against his torso, but he couldn't. At some point, they'd both seemed to have made an agreement not to take their friendship to anything more. Too many complications. Too large a threat of a war in which they'd both be involved.

"Stay with me tonight?" he asked.

And so they ended up entwined on the largest of the sofas, Hermione lying with her back to Fred, the two of them facing the empty fireplace, watching as a spark took to the air every so often. He held her against him protectively, unwilling to ever let her go.

When the room grew colder, she conjured a blanket to cover them both. When it became too dark to be comfortable, he conjured those same little floating lights they'd enjoyed that summer.

In the peace, it was easy to fall into a relaxing silence and just relish in the other's warmth and tangibility.

So much so that it was sometime far later when Hermione dared to murmur, "You called me Granger," in that tiny, hurt voice he hated himself for causing. If he was honest with himself (and he made a point not to be when it came to matters of his Mina), he couldn't remember when he'd used her surname. He couldn't imagine ever wanting to cut her down with such impersonalities.

"I'm sorry, Mina," he replied, again.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

And that eerie quiet settled over them once more.

For her part, Hermione was trying, perhaps for the first time since she was little, not to think. Everyone had always told her she thought too much, that she should live more on the wild side, and she'd ignored them. It was almost destiny that Fred would be the one to have her shutting off her mind.

Not for anything he'd done in particular. She was simply sick of the detail in which she knew her best friend, the level to which she knew her obsession with him ran. If he ever found out, he'd run.

She was pretty certain she was in love with him.

And that sucked, because her heart was the least important of her organs when it came to surviving Umbridge, and helping run the DA, and getting through her OWL examinations. Not to mention keeping Harry safe.

Fred had been right, that day back before her fourth year when they'd chatted in the Weasley's kitchen: she was too noble for her own good.

"Hey, Mina?" the redhead in question asked after a while. Hermione hadn't the energy to respond. All her muscles had relaxed, her thoughts simmered down.

"Are you asleep, beautiful?" he chuckled lightly.

"Mmhmm" she mumbled sleepily.

"Don't worry then, gorgeous."

His endearments were all she heard before she let herself drift into the most restful sleep she'd had in weeks.

And Fred was left wondering, not for the first time, if this was as good as it would ever get for them.


	5. Enough

**Chapter 5: Enough**

_He never let her think she wasn't beautiful..._

The Gryffindor Common Room was buzzing as it always was after anything worthy of gossip had happened. It was like this after every Quidditch game, every new couple found snogging, every argument. An argument was what had set the gathered teenagers off that night.

Ron had been the one to start it, she told herself bitterly. He'd been the one flinging insults left, right and centre. She wasn't even sure what had set him off.

Now she was outside the portrait hole leaning against the cold stones of the castle walls, trying not to cry over him or his words.

He was right though, and everyone had known it.

"What would you know about kissing?" he'd asked, looking genuinely incredulous. "You're a bloody book-worm."

She liked books, true. She also liked to watch Quidditch, listen to _The Stoned Warlocks_, and watch the Giant Squid create ripples in the lake at sunset. So she didn't like to fly, big deal. A witch could have fun and have friends without that. A witch could get the attention of guys with their brains as well as their boobs.

But then why did it hurt so much when he said she wasn't attractive?

Because it scared her, she thought. It scared her that he might be right,

It was one of her biggest fears, that she'd never be loved because she put too much into her schoolwork and her contribution to the fight against He Who Must Not Be Named. It was one of her biggest failings, she thought, that she even cared.

Hermione wanted to kick out at something, wanted to cause something pain to make up for the ripping pain in her chest. _You're not enough, you're not enough_, the mantra ran through her head and nothing she did was stopping it. Lights started to flash in front of her eyes, and that's when she knew she had to move.

A panic attack by the Fat Lady was not a good idea. There was already quite a substantial amount of gossip about her to go around.

Eyes staring straight ahead and legs moving quickly under her just-the-right-length school skirt, Hermione headed for the nearest secret passageway, a nice tunnel on the second floor that led to the greenhouses.

As the tapestry which hid her haven swished shut behind her, she hiccupped once. Twice.

Then the sobs came. They weren't dainty; they certainly weren't feminine or attractive. These were huge, throat-constricting, stomach-cramping sobs, which doubled over her slight frame and didn't even have the decency to streak her face with tears. Almost dry heaves, she noted ruefully.

Trust her, the studious little book-worm, to be trying to categorise her breakdown while in its midst.

Ron had really hit the nail on the head.

And then her genie showed his freckled face, so similar yet so exceptionally different from his little git of a brother: Fred Weasley.

He knelt beside her, wrapping her in his arms and whispering the same soothing sounds into her hair as he'd done so many times before. How did they keep ending up in these situations? He wondered if perhaps his Mina had needed someone like him all along, long before he took the time to get to know her. It made him wish he could have been there. She had always had too much on her shoulders, ever since she'd made it her responsibility to help the Longbottom kid find his toad.

"Too bloody noble," he murmured, resting his chin atop her bushy head. "You're just too bloody noble to tell him where to shove his lies, Mina."

Fred was furious at his brother (and he used the term loosely at that moment) for the words he'd apparently spat at the girl. He hadn't been there – of course he hadn't, else there'd have been punches flying before the boy could have opened his mouth. Before Mina had started crumbling.

When the sobs calmed somewhat, and Hermione instead began quaking in his hug, he removed the hoodie he wore over his uniform and lay it over her shoulders. She nodded by way of thanks as she stuck her arms through it, appreciating the heat it offered and its smell. That homely, spicy scent of her Fred lingered in every thread. She could feel her mind clearing just a little bit more with every inhalation.

They straightened up, then, so that their backs leant against the walls of the tunnel carved into the castle's stones. Theirs knees were touching, and Hermione was reminded very much of that afternoon at Grimmauld Place where they'd rested in this exact same position after that exuberant dancing.

Why could she never feel as free and young and beautiful as part of the Golden Trio as she did laughing alongside her twin?

_Because you're not in love with Harry or Ron_, her mind reminded. As if she needed reminding. She was very much aware of her love for Fred, and even more aware of the fact that she could never tell him. It was almost the end of May, almost time for him to leave. They'd been building up to this moment from that fight in April, spending as much time as possible with each other.

It wasn't enough.

It wouldn't ever be enough, she didn't think. But the fear of losing her best friend didn't mean she could shirk all those responsibilities, all the exams and DA and hot-headed Boy Wonders. Merlin, she sounded like Fred there.

The man in question, for there was definitely a sense of maturity in him now that seemed to have one day sprung from nowhere, gave her a light nudge to bring her back out of her thoughts. _"Thinking alone is selfish,"_he'd told her once. _"It means others can't hear your brilliant ideas_," he'd said. She'd blushed, but hadn't shared the theory she was building on the effect of adding dandelion root to Wolfsbane potion.

"You don't actually believe my idiot brother, right?" he asked her, voice hushed as though they were part of a grand conspiracy.

She shook her head, and that faraway look returned to her pretty doe-eyes. Fred wondered where her mind had carried her this time. It happened frequently, and he imagined it was a side effect of being the 'brightest witch of their age', as people liked to call her. He didn't mind; it gave him time to admire the untamed mess of curls that framed her face, and the delicate curve of her lips. Also gave him an excuse to touch her, to steal back her attention.

"Hey now," he breathed. "Something's up, I can tell. Want to talk?"

Did she? Yes, most definitely. She'd love nothing more than to scream at him for making her fall in love so deep, yell and shout and cry at him for all the stupid quirks she treasured. But could she? That was a different story.

"I'm okay," she whispered in reply. She couldn't tell him any of that.

"You sure?"

"Yes, Fred. I'm sure," she smiled.

"Good," he said, "because you're too smart and too beautiful to be letting Ron under your skin."

The bashful schoolgirl in her wanted to giggle and swoon. The embarrassed schoolboy in him was cursing himself for being so free with the compliments.

What happened to not letting her know how he felt until they'd both left school, until the war was over and love would actually have time to grow and prosper and mean something? What happened to not forcing his affections on her when she quite obviously had many other suitors – he'd seen the looks she'd been getting lately.

Let her have her fun, he'd admonished himself repeatedly. One day he'd get his chance. For the moment, he wouldn't break the bond they shared for anything

"Beautiful?" she repeated to him coyly.

"Bloody gorgeous," he affirmed.

The silence between them after that was as comfortable as always. Five minutes passed in which they let themselves think up a million and more justifications for not admitting their feelings aloud. Another five passed in which they tried to hide their blushes.

And finally, in the twelfth minute of silent contemplation in that grubby little passageway, Hermione stretched her hand just a little further from where it rested against the floor.

Her fingers entwined with the longer, rougher, colder ones of her best mate. He struggled to keep his pulse down and his lips from curving into too wide a smile.

Then, so quietly he thought for a moment he might have imagined it, she whispered, "A girl could really love you, y'know."

It wasn't an admittance, not quite.

"Back at ya, Mina."

But it was enough.


	6. Distance

**Chapter 6: Distance**

_She didn't enjoy being away from him so much..._

Sunlight drifted through the curtains of the Hospital Wing, reminding her horribly of that veil. She winced. According the Madam Pomfrey, the searing pain in her side would dissipate within the next few hours. The memories wouldn't fade for a long time though.

The night had been cruel to them, and even though she was alive, a part of her wished she didn't have to be, that she could switch places with Sirius for Harry's sake. Her friend deserved the happiness his Godfather gave, she reasoned.

No, that wouldn't do. This wasn't a time for sadness; she'd wallowed in her terror of what those Death Eaters could do for two years already. She was no longer a child, not anymore. Hermione Granger was a founding member of Dumbledore's Army, 'brightest witch of her age', and she was alive.

Alive after facing some of the most evil wizards in Britain.

So no, this wasn't a time for sadness. This was the time for fury and rage and determination and grit. This was the time for avenging Sirius' death, getting back at the gits who'd cursed her, feeling proud of herself for cutting no fewer than three of those big, burly men down by her own wand.

If Fred were there, he'd tease her for acting 'too bloody noble' as was usual. But he wasn't there. The twins were in Diagon Alley setting up their new shop (and likely hiding from a still fuming Mrs Weasley). She was separated from her best mate and his cheesy, cocky smile by over 500 miles.

To think she might have been within feet of him just the night before as they swooped down over the lights of London towards the Ministry.

Wriggling a little to try and get comfortable without stirring her wounds, she tried once more to get some rest.

With some reluctance, she drifted to the one scene which had replayed over and over and over again that past week: her twins' dramatic exits. A grin wound its way onto her lips as she pictured the sheer pride on Fred's face as he'd set off those awful, genius fireworks. Her bloody clever trouble-maker and his bloody clever inventions.

Finally, Hermione gave into a fretful slumber, still smiling.

The next she knew, there was an almighty ruckus that sounded suspiciously like bedpans clattering to the ground in a heap. Her nose crinkled; that wouldn't be too hygienic for the poor person creating the noise. Eyes still closed, she tried to work out just who it was who'd woken her.

They were grousing to themselves, she noticed – some curse words would make even Ron blush. If Ron were alright enough to hear, she reminded herself. No matter how desperately she'd wanted to ask after her friends that morning, there hadn't been a chance. When she wasn't sleeping (or trying to), she was being drip-fed potions by the brusque matron.

The tiles on the ceiling were her only company; she'd not heard any other voices in the room (besides Pomfrey's, of course) until now.

As suddenly as the disturbance had begun, it stopped. Silence.

Then footsteps.

Click. Clack. Click.

Thump.

Crack.

"Bloody Merlin's lace brassiere."

"Fred?"

Another thump and crack. What on Earth was going on?

"Whoever's there," she hissed, angry. "Whoever's there should show themselves now. I warn you: I'm great with hexes."

"And where's your wand, Mina?" came a chuckle, but it didn't sound his usual jovial self. Not for the first time, Hermione wished it didn't hurt so much to move. She needed to see him.

"So it _is_you," she said in her typified know-it-all tone.

He didn't say anything, and she bit back a sigh of frustration. His ginger mop would be a perfect distraction from the tiles and the insides of her eyelids. She thrived on stimulation; her scenery there was anything but.

"Well come closer then," she admonished. "I can't move about yet."

And there he was. Leaning over her, he looked older than the last time she'd seen him, though that might have been a result of the lack of school uniform. There were bags under his eyes, just visible in the dimly lit ward, and his lips looked dry.

_Stop looking at his lips!_This wasn't the time, not when he looked so weary.

"How's the shop?" she found herself asking. As if she didn't know. He'd sent her letters, just as he'd promised.

Just as she'd reminded him sternly during that final bone-crushing, heart-breaking hug, the one that tried to convey just how much they meant to each other. She felt tingles just to think of it. Arms wrapped around her waist so tightly she had felt every inch of her body burning against his. His hot breath against her neck. Fingers digging into sides; toes touching, a feeling of completeness that lasted until the precise moment they had to let go.

His eyes had been irresistibly dark when he'd pulled away. Bloody desirable prat.

"Doesn't matter," he dismissed quickly. "What in blaze's name did you go and do this time?" No hint of anger, nor amusement. This was pure fear.

And that scared Hermione more than the drawl of Lucius Malfoy had. Her Fred shouldn't have been afraid. Her Fred was a tireless crusader for doing what was right, for fighting for the Light.

"I couldn't stop Harry going," she tried to explain. Why wouldn't he look her in the eye? She glimpsed quick movements in her peripheral, and then a shaky hand was running through his hair. "Fred, I couldn't let him go there alone. You know that."

"Yeah, okay."

It wasn't okay. It would never be okay that the girl he loved more than life itself was day after day putting herself in harm's way.

"Look at me, Fred," she said. He did as he was told, for a second or so at least. "I'm a big girl now. I can fight my own battles when you're –" The unspoken words hung in the air between them, heavy with the weight of them. _When you're not around_, she'd almost said. He understood perfectly what she meant. He'd left her, and Harry and Ron and the rest of the DA. Maybe if he'd stuck around until the end of the year, he might have been able to fight alongside her, keep her safe.

Irrational thinking, that. But she made him act illogical and unreasonable and downright foolish – as he did her.

"You're my Mina," he whispered. "I'll always want to protect you, wherever I am."

"I know."

He wanted so much to touch her – hug her, kiss her, _anything_. But that might cause her pain. The gentleman in Fred kept his hands firmly away from the mess that lay, cut and bruised and broken, on the bed below him.

"You look a wreck, darling," he smiled. It still didn't touch his eyes though.

"It'll heal."

"I'll be here 'til it does?" he wanted to offer. But of course she'd shake her head and laugh off his proposal. That was what would always happen – he worried she might never realise just how much he'd give up for her if she asked.

A part of him (and George) fretted he might even give up on the shop, if that's ever what she wanted. All she'd have to do would be to gaze up at him with those never-ending chocolate eyes.

She'd never dream to ask that of him, though, and the three of them knew it, so there wasn't anything holding him back from falling deeper and deeper for the girl.

"Go take care of your shop, Fred," she said, as he'd predicted. "I'm fine on my own."

"I'm here now."

"You shouldn't be. Ward's closing." A grin tugged at their lips. The perfect prefect was starting to show herself again.

The presence of a good friend did wonders for the soul. Hermione made a note to research the magical properties of love a little more as soon as she was able to sit up.

"But doesn't it count for something?"

Her stare was unwavering, her voice firm, as she replied, "You'll be away so much from now on, I need to learn to cope on my own again."

There was something more to her words than either wanted to admit. No time to dwell on it there, however; it was at that point that Madam Pomfrey came out to hustle last minute visitors out of the area.

Before he let himself be dragged from the room, Fred stooped low to place a chaste kiss on his Mina's fevered forehead.

And as he rose to leave, he heard her mumble, "Thank you for everything you've done."

They weren't over.

But things were changing too quickly in their lives, in their relationship, and neither was ready for it all.

Still, they were Fred and Hermione. They could conquer anything with just a little bit of practice and fortitude. A little bit of distance wouldn't keep them down forever.


	7. Winter

**Chapter 7: Winter**

_And in the winter she'd be wearing his hoodie..._

A rat-ta-tapping against the window of the flat disturbed Fred from his top-secret, very difficult, highly ingenious work. Or his nap. Same thing, he thought. Mina wouldn't think so though; she might love his products, but she didn't understand his... process.

Still, he was roused from the sofa by the scraping of talons against glass, and that was all that really mattered.

With a sigh, he ushered in the frosted owl that awaited his eyes-half-closed self. A piece of parchment was rolled tightly within the owl's grip, with his full name scrawled in striking calligraphy across the outside: _To Frederick Gideon Weasley_.

He smirked. Only one person that could be.

When his mother sent them letters, it was always to _Fred and George_. With his brothers, it was _The Gits_. Their friends usually went with a general _Weasley_, and his twin, when too lazy to climb the stairs from the shop floor to the flat or stick his head in a fireplace, always, without fail, wrote something along the lines of _'My less attractive/clever/brave/astounding twin_'_._Only one person, the best person, ever addressed him so formally.

Mina.

Or, if he were to mimic her, _Hermione Jean Granger_. To be honest, he was more likely to write something more similar to George, flowery and filled with superfluous adjectives. A _'Most gloriously stunning and sought after lady'_, perhaps, or just '_Formidable Mina_'. Where better to win a witch's heart than in the address line of a letter.

He'd been perfecting the art while she was away at Hogwarts.

On that fateful afternoon, right before the setting off of the swamp, as he'd held his Mina so tightly to his chest that there wasn't room even for a unicorn hair to slip between them, he'd made a promise. Two letters a day, he'd said. One, she'd dismissed.

Always doing that, his little firecracker – rejecting his offers of gallantry and love without realising just how sincere his efforts were. It wasn't her fault; he was a jokester at heart and she was the only one who ever saw different.

It wasn't fair to expect her to believe in him. It wasn't fair to expect her to return his affections either.

A piece of coal exploding on the grate startled him from his thoughts. Right, letter to open. Best not to forget that bit; could be important. For a second he began to wonder all the possibilities – was she in danger? Ill? Was she going to declare her undying love for him in the form of a missive? It would be like her, he thought. Quill and parchment weren't as quick to judge, she'd once told him. He wasn't quite sure he agreed.

_To Frederick Gideon Weasley_,

the letter began.

_I have a bone to pick with you so you'd be best to open your front door right now, or I'm sending in the pixies. Don't think I won't._

_Yours,_

_Mina x_

Dear Merlin, the witch was crazy.

And so, naturally, he sprinted to the door of his flat, keys at the ready, before it had even registered that finally, _finally_, she'd begun calling herself his pet name in their correspondence. Felt like victory, that did. Sweet, meticulous, powerful, beautiful victory.

He almost wrenched the door from its hinges in his excitement.

"Mina! You look ravishing as always," he greeted jovially, arms wide open and beaming.

_Charm offensive_, Bill had once taught him. _The witches can't resist some Weasley charm_. The man had snagged a Veela; Fred couldn't afford not to listen to his eldest brother.

Then: "Frederick Weasley!" she shrieked.

Not working, clearly.

"Yes?"

"I'm angry with you!" she said, just as loud and high pitched as before. She didn't need to be: they were standing about a foot apart and his hearing wasn't that damaged, despite all those years listening to his mum's tirades.

"I got that bit, love," he said uneasily. He had the strange urge to pull at the collar of his robes – they felt oddly constricting under the tiny girl's glare. Yet he couldn't help but notice just how delectable she looked with her arms folded so determinedly.

"You – you –"

"What?"

Silence, bewildering silence, as Hermione's mouth merely imitated a goldfish for several moments. Then -

"You haven't invited me to your shop!"

Well that was unexpected.

"What?"

"You, Fred Weasley, haven't sent me one bloody invitation all month to come and visit you here."

"I haven't..." Fred tried to get this straight in his head, but a small smirk was growing at the thought of what she was saying. "I haven't invited you to our shop, and you're angry at that?"

"Yes."

"You realise how ridiculous that is, right?"

"Immeasurably," she agreed, still scowling. "Doesn't mean I'm not mad."

His smirk then flowered into a fully grown grin.

"Oh you're definitely mad, woman."

And his arms were around her waist, lifting her off the ground so suddenly she let out a little shriek.

"It's the principle!" she tried to protest, but he could hear the reluctant smile as he spun them in circles through the door and into the living room. "How was I supposed to give you presents?"

"To hell with the principles, love," he dismissed.

And when he let her down on the sofa (on his lap, more importantly), there was a soft smile on her face that showed he was forgiven. Not that he understood the insanity that was her argument, but that wasn't important.

His hands were running up and down the skin of her back, through the navy hoodie she wore. _His_navy hoodie. She'd stolen it (been gifted it) from his room months before in the summer holidays, when he and George had stayed the night at the Burrow and she'd grown chilly watching the Weasleys playing 3-a-side Quidditch in the dull grey dusk.

No doubt about it, Fred was sure he'd never looked half as edible in it as she did.

He felt her shiver, and with a majestic wave of his wand (overly so, they both knew), the fire roared even bigger and brighter in the grate.

They took a moment of silence, as they so often did. Fred liked to think that he could be two very different people sometimes – with Mina, he was able to put aside the immaturity and become the courageous, inspired man he always wanted to be. He loved to joke and prank and make people laugh, but there was more than one way to do so.

With Mina, he got to explore that less outlandish side, the side that didn't have to pour frog slime over a couple of Slytherins to elicit a chuckle.

He saved those kinds of ideas for George. Ideas like those suited big belly guffawing (of which George was naturally gifted) as opposed to reserved, pretty giggles.

So he stared into the fire and enjoyed the silence and the company he was in.

"So," Fred said, some time later. "What was with the Vector act?"

"Come again?" Her nose crinkled – adorably, Fred mused.

"The explosion on my doorstep? You looked like Professor Vector in one of her fits."

Professor Vector had been one of the only teachers at Hogwarts Fred had truly liked, and not just because Arithmancy was an interesting study (if not something that came naturally to him or George). She'd been well known for her strict attitude, and several times had shown bouts of temper unexpected from a diminutive woman. Merlin, he made her sound like an older Mina when he put it that way.

Maybe that was why the subject had become his Mina's favourite. She never shut up about her latest theories.

"Yeah, sorry about that," she replied. "Forgive me?"

"Maybe."

"Fred!"

He sighed, though it was a happy sigh when he thought about it. "I always forgive you, Mina."

"Always?" Her voice held a sense of innocence and helpless wonder in it, and Fred briefly considered the possibility that he'd never told her that before, that she could do almost anything and he'd still love her.

Love her. Bloody hell, if only his mother knew. She'd be over the moon; she'd always wanted the bright-eyed, bushy haired witch as a Weasley.

_Slow it down,_ he told himself sternly. _Just a moment ago you were comparing her to Vector. No point planning a wedding just yet._

So he choked out an "Always" and didn't say a word as her arms wrapped snugly around his neck.

Eyes closed, cuddling by a warm fire while snow fell steadily outside, they were content. And it crossed both of their minds, for a moment, that this could be the time.

Maybe it was their moment to make a move.

Maybe –

"Hey, Mina?" whispered Fred.

"We can't," was all she said in reply.

He understood. He couldn't stand the pain it sent through his chest, but he understood. She had bigger, better things to do. Bigger, better _people_ to do.

Actually, scratch that last one. In the pit of his stomach - the rolling churning positively ill-feeling part – he knew she was free to go about cavorting with any number of men who weren't him. That eegit McLaggen was a prime example. But was it okay for him to feel so uncontrollably enraged whenever the image of her kissing any other person invaded his mind? He was a male; he could admit to jealousy when needed.

It wasn't needed here.

It was bloody obvious to most of his friends without a written confession.

"Okay," he said, trying desperately to hide his dejected mood.

And in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, Hermione asked, "Presents?"

And that was that.

The unwrapping of presents was a strange mix of awkwardness, and over-exuberance to cover up said awkwardness. It was like nothing Fred had ever experienced since that one time Aunt Muriel had visited for the holidays.

He shuddered. Even at her worst, Hermione was no Aunt Muriel.

It wasn't until the girl across from him, cross-legged on the rug and lit up enticingly by the dancing firelight, was inspecting the pretty trinket he'd made her (a music box which would play a different melody depending on the owner's mood) that something occurred to Fred. And when it did, all colour drained from his face, all energy from his bones.

He'd called her Hermione. Albeit in his head, but the point remained. _It was the principle_, as she had said only an hour before. Compared to all the dozens of things cluttering the living room, all the thousands of wizards and witches in England, all the hundreds of billions of trillions of stars in the night sky, calling his friend by her real name was nothing.

But to Fred, it signalled something clear.

It was over.

It had never even begun, but it was over. The wedding, the giddy feelings, everything he'd subconsciously been dreaming. They weren't going to happen and that was all there was to it. All Hermione had to say, he realised that now.

Merry Christmas to him.


	8. Claims

**Chapter 8: Claims**

_When the time came, they took a day trip to the local ..._

Weeks passed, and there were no letters. Not any that mattered, at least. Not any from Fred.

Hermione had never found it so difficult to muster a smile. And then the weeks turned into months and life moved on and Dumbledore...

_Don't dwell_, she kept telling herself. _There's worse to come yet_.

But bugger it all if she didn't need her best friend more than ever on that stupidly, horridly bright sunny day with the coffin by the lake, when her eyes burned and blurred and the need to cry caught her throat. Ron had been there; emotionally stunted Ron had been beside her the whole day, arm hanging across her shoulders gently.

It wasn't the same, but he'd been there and she was grateful.

It was all suddenly so real – as though, where she'd once been proud for treading water by the shallow end, she was now struggling against rough tides in a bottomless lake filled with Grindylows and sharks. This, fighting against those _bastard_ Death Eaters over and over within her own beloved castle's walls: this was terror. Terror as she'd never experienced.

And Fred wasn't there.

Well technically he was. He was a member of the Order and of her adopted family, the Weasleys. He was always there, around. But when the dust had settled over a caved in corridor and those two cowards had fled, when they gathered in front of that marble table in mourning, he wasn't there _with her_.

If the other Weasleys noticed, they said nothing. She wouldn't blame them if they hadn't even realised she'd been there those first few nights, to be fair. The state of Bill in a hospital bed, face mauled something awful, frightened her more than she wanted to admit. It wasn't that she was afraid of werewolves and their victims – she'd be planning on improving Wolfsbane since she'd first learnt of it in third year. It was a case that this had happened to one of their own, _again_. Two Weasley men hit, five more to go.

They were all in danger.

So she ran. As soon as the funeral was done with, she gave Ron a look of apology and regret, and she was gone.

_Coward_, she called herself. _No better than Snape and Malfoy_.

By day nine of the summer, there were no tears left. No feeling left at all, really. Just a gaping hole in her chest that had once been filled with red hair, laughter, and a sense of security.

Bloody stupid tossers, the both of them. And as easy as it would be to send a letter to Fred, to resume their friendship, she couldn't. He wanted more from her than she could give. _She_wanted more from herself. It was wrong though, with so much death surrounding them.

It was, quite simply, the most perfect example of not being the right time.

And yet,

_Cher Hermione,_

_You are invited to celebrate with us the wedding of_ _William Weasley and Fleur Delacour_ _on the seventh Sunday after Midsummer, at The Burrow._

_Formal dress required._

_The Weasley-Delacours_

_Mione,_

_Date set. See Fleur's letter. Be ready,_

_Harry and Ron_

_Dear Frederick Gideon Weasley,_

_Can I see you?_

_I need to_

_We need to_

_Tuesday. 1pm. Leaky Cauldron._

_Mina x_

She had to tell him, for her sakes as much as his. He wouldn't try to stop her or tell her it wasn't safe – she didn't expect him to, wouldn't listen if he tried. All she wanted was closure. If she was going to fight to the death in this bloody war, she was going to go out in the knowledge that she and Fred had been best friends to the end.

It was time to make amends.

So why, when Tuesday morning arrived, was she so tempted to scribble a quick note of cancellation, and retreat back upstairs to her bed. Her bed was nice – it loved her and she could love it back. It didn't make her vulnerable.

_Chin up,_ the voice in her head ordered. _Look strong._

The same words she'd thought everyday since her fourth year took on a new meaning that morning.

Still, come five minutes to one, her small heels clicked against the stone flagging of the Leaky Cauldron and she took a seat at the bar with a tall glass of Gillywater.

At 1pm exactly, Fred strode in. His eyes blazed, and every inch of his body looked so alive, Hermione lost the ability to think for just a moment. Did he know how brilliant he was? There wasn't an inch of him that looked dull; everything about him shouted vibrantly for people to admire him. And she did, admire him that was.

They didn't speak to each other at first. Their communication passed through Tom, the bartender.

"Plate of chips, please," Fred said briskly. "I don't know if my friend would like the same?"

"The same will be fine, thank you," she replied. But it wasn't really a reply, just as Fred hadn't really asked a question. There couldn't be a conversation when neither could put their eyes on the other.

How had it come down to this?

They'd been best friends, the closest to each other (aside from George, naturally). Now they were staring awkwardly at the grain of the countertop, waiting for the other to make the first move. His leg twitched restlessly; her hands pulled at the hem of her cardigan nervously.

But she'd brought them this far, hadn't she? Hermione Granger wasn't a wilted flower – she had stared down the Death Eaters and she could stare down this battle here.

"I'm leaving."

Perhaps she shouldn't have 'stared it down' so bluntly.

"Sounds familiar, that," he grunted. And it did. He'd said the exact same words to her the Christmas of her fifth year, as they'd sat together celebrating quietly that Mr Weasley would make a full recovery. That had been a horrid conversation to have; she hoped beyond reason that this would go better.

"Be serious, please?" she pleaded.

"When?" was all he asked.

"Soon." She hesitated, but what harm would it do to give him a little more information. "After the wedding."

Five more weeks. That was all they'd have, if he even wanted her still.

"You don't hang about, do you?" he laughed, but the laughter was strained, painful to the ear.

She shook her head.

"It's too important to wait. People are dying and –"

"And you're my too-bloody-noble Mina who puts herself in peril to make better a world that's trying to off her. I know."

"Not how I was going to put it," she smiled.

He gave her a doleful grin, the sort he'd shoot his mother whenever he'd taken a biscuit from the pot before dinner and been caught. The sort that conveyed more apologies than he could put into words.

It was the kind of smile that made Hermione fall ever more in love with the prat.

"Well," he said, and back were the grand pretences he put on to lighten a mood. "I guess that means I'll have to make the most of the little time we've left, eh?"

"Sounds familiar," she smirked.

And while the tension hadn't vanished, their determination to see this through, their resolve to fulfil the promises they'd made to each other not to fall apart once he'd finished at Hogwarts – that had grown tenfold over the course of their short exchange.

Once again, they were Fred and Mina. The jokester and the bookworm, battling evil and eating chips.

As they ate, they chatted as they had before Christmas, about everything and nothing all in one go.

"How's the shop?" she questioned at one point.

He'd launched into a lengthy tale of all she'd missed, each prank he'd played on George (those George had played against him conspicuous by their absence), the boom in sales. Talking for something to do more than anything, they both knew. Talking to fill the quietness.

Didn't stop the gnawing mesh of pride and wonder in her stomach as Hermione watched. Those exuberant movements, the ever-moving hands. That maniacal beaming expression. It all drew her in, emptied her mind of thought and reason and gave her a glimpse of the old Fred.

The Fred who'd got her to dance with him in the parlour room at Grimmauld Place. Memories swarmed her mind and her pretty honey eyes glazed over.

"It's getting late," he said as he rounded off a particularly stilted story involving Fanged Frisbees and Lee's poor dreadlocks. "Maybe I should go."

It took a minute for her to notice the expectant – silent – moment that followed. Not that she'd ever tell him, but she'd been distracted by a piece of flaming hair which was refusing to conform and stood straight out from behind his ear. Not a part of her twin followed conventions, she appreciated.

"Mina?"

"Yes, I agree," she rushed.

"Oh."

His face fell, not enough that people would notice, but then she wasn't just any arbitrary person. She was his Mina – only George knew him better.

A subtle blush formed on her cheeks, contrasting charmingly with her lightly freckled skin.

Sheepishly, she asked, "What did I agree to?"

He waved it off, feigning a jovially tone she saw through instantly. "I'm heading back to work. Afternoon crowds, you know?"

"Bull."

"What?"

"You're running away," she hissed.

"Am not!" He was arguing, but it was true.

"Yes, you are. You're Fred Weasley: you run away from me sometimes and never tell me why."

"Untrue." They were squaring up to one another, baiting each other, and every patron of the bar could see it (though that was limited, really, to just themselves and an old hag in the back corner).

"Don't do this." Her voice contained an unmistakable sigh, and he was caught surprise by an unexpected surge of fury in his gut. Again.

Not for the first time, he considered the possibility that it was for the best she'd rejected him. Like clockwork, they would fight every other time they spoke – big, vocal bursts of biting insults and those stupid guilt-trips. That wasn't normal, was it, to hurl cruel words at the person he thought he loved?

Charlie had once said it came as part of a 'passionate relationship', the anger his Mina could bring about in him; George said it was because he was such a git.

"Fred?"

"Don't do what?" he spat. So maybe it was George who was right.

If he were to try and visualise the moment his Mina snapped, it would have looked something similar to her right then: bushy hair flying wildly around a face no longer stern and together, but with wide, raging eyes and open mouth and cheeks ablaze. Bloody gorgeous and alarming in one.

She stood sharply, and he wondered for a second if she might slap him.

Instead, she approached him with a small pace forward.

And in the lowest, more alluring voice he'd ever heard from the girl, all but growled into his ear, "Don't push me."

Bugger if that hadn't set his nerves afire.

Bloody seductress knew what she was doing, she must have done, when she stepped lightly around his stool towards the exit of the pub. It was a mind game, surely – another trick to win another row? It couldn't be –

He was out of his seat before his mind had finished the thought.

They were out the door by the time her caught up. The sky was clouded over, the alleyway almost as dim under the shade as the Leaky had been.

But it didn't matter. The heat of his touch, the crackling of magic surrounding them; they wouldn't have been aware had there been snowfall.

His hand went to her elbow. Her back hit the brick wall.

Pause.

"Fred?" she whispered, peering up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

All of a sudden, Hermione was unsure of herself. Blind rage had led them there – what next? Could they really throw yet another risk into their lives?

But she was leaving. There was war. They mightn't make it. She might lose him. He might lose her.

This was their one chance.

"Mina."

And the next thing Hermione knew, Fred's lips were claiming hers – hot and fast and desperate and perfect. A fierce tingling rose from her toes to the large hand gripping tightly at her waist. Another hand was entangled in her hair so tightly that it might've hurt had she not been so overwhelmed by the assault on her senses.

Merlin, he could kiss.

His mouth moved to burn a trail down her throat and she whimpered ever so softly. If she'd been capable of thought, she'd have been grateful for the support of the wall behind her. Kissing someone had never felt like _this_, this primal, guttural, instinctual mess of roaming hands and a dance of tongues.

"Mina," Fred moaned, hands slipping under her blouse and caressing the supple skin beneath. His fingertips were rough and she gave herself into the sensation completely.

The next time Fred's ministrations strayed to her collarbone, though, Hermione wrestled out the question storming across her thoughts: "What is this, Fred?"

He brought his face back to within half an inch of hers, lips almost touching so that she could feel every breath, count every freckle. The sheer blueness of his eyes had her dazed, the seriousness of his voice setting her lose in a world of fantasies and dreams.

"You know what this is, Mina. You're mine and I'm very much, utterly and unconditionally yours."


	9. Belief

**Chapter 9: Belief**

_It wasn't possible to keep in contact during the war..._

For the third night in a row, Hermione couldn't sleep. It wasn't that her body wasn't sagging under her exhaustion – there were nightmares and worries and visions of a future in which they didn't win, in which she failed. It all combined to keep her tossing and turning in the cool breeze.

Ron was back, and that was great. He'd been a complete prat to them and she was glad he'd returned, that he could tell them how the Order was holding up. Merlin how she missed them all. Sometimes, in the dead of night at times like this, when Harry's snores drifted through the dulled air, Hermione imagined a world without Voldemort. In that world, she didn't have to skip out on her last year of school. There she was free to do as any young woman wanted

Had they still been at the Burrow, she could have simply crawled into Fred's bed, or apparated to his flat (though the twins rarely slept there in the build up to the wedding that summer). Fred would have known what to do.

They hadn't kissed between that day at the Leaky, and the wedding's reception. Everything had just been too busy. She'd had Harry to deal with; he'd had his new sister-in-law and a highly successful business to take care of between his own missions for the Order.

Of their own accord, Hermione's fingers rose to her lips in memory of the searing, heart-wrenching moment they'd shared before her world had flipped all over again and she'd had to flee.

"Merlin, you're beautiful," he'd whispered against her forehead as he released her.

"Fred – " His lips had brushed against her so gently, so _perfectly_, she'd thought she might bloody cry.

"You should go, Mina."

And with one more chaste kiss, he'd left her by the broom shed.

Now, sitting with her knees pulled to her chest and shivering only slightly in that hoodie she'd nicked off him all those summers ago, Hermione wanted nothing more than to hear his voice again.

Her situation made it too difficult to send letters. That was one of the many sacrifices the trio had had to make, and not one could say they were happy at that moment. If the mission had been going better, who knew how they might have felt. Then and there?

If she was honest, Hermione would say she'd never felt more like a lost, scared, naïve little child than when she curled up like this outside the tent, gazing out at the Forest of Dean with the wireless playing behind her.

As the night wore on, yawns tore at her tiny frame.

Briefly, she wondered what he was up to at that moment. The thin leather-strapped watch on her wrist – pretty, but more importantly functional, just like her – showed it to be almost two in the morning. Probably sleeping then, she realised.

And once again, the idea struck her to write him a letter and leave it somewhere he might find it. She was intelligent – if anyone could make a letter untraceable, it was her. Then she could tell him how much he meant to her, how the nightmares were causing her such overwhelming fatigue, how he'd better survive the whole ordeal so she could give him just one more kiss.

How she loved him.

That was impossible though. Never mind that Fred wasn't known for rational thought when it concerned her (he wasn't dumb by any stretch of the imagination, but there was always an outside chance he'd try and reply and their location would be rumbled).

What if he'd forgotten about her already? What if he was so busy with his life that his every other thought wasn't of her well-being, as hers were of his?

It seemed as though her nights were spent purely in her depths of worry for the Weasleys and the Order and for Hogwarts. And most of all, for her twin.

So Hermione satisfied herself with daydreams about their reunion, when he'd sweep her into a bear hug and kiss her senseless. Fred would tell her all the parts of her he adored in some big showy declaration; Voldemort would be defeated by their love; and they'd snog their way into a glorious sunset.

She snorted. Ginny's romance novels (two packed deep in her bag for distraction from the bad dreams) had clearly gotten to her head. Or maybe it was the was the forest's damp musky air.

Eyes closing, she gave in once more to the fantasy.

If she tried hard enough, she fancied, she could almost hear Fred muttering sweet nothings in her ears.

_"...attack on the Muggle village of Thundersley... 4 Death Eaters captured..."_

Or maybe not so sweet.

The voice crackled slightly, changed suddenly into an outburst that sounded suspiciously like _The Wruddy Wrackspurts'_latest single, and Hermione's wand was whipped afore her quickly grave face, alert and sober.

There was no movement between the trees; no sound of a twig snapping underfoot or a cloak brushing against bark. Nothing.

So what –

_"Sorry about the interruption."_

_"Having trouble with the charm tonight."_

Was that -?

_"Rapier here keeps getting distracted."_

_"Yes, thank you River."_

It couldn't be.

_"Small break now to fix that little technical error."_

_"Then next we'll hear from Royal about the latest grassroots efforts –"_

_"– from all you fantastic wizards and witches out there."_

_"Stay tuned to Potterwatch."_

Oh Merlin.

Hermione struggled to suppress her gasp – she couldn't keep down the elated giggle bubbling in her throat. It was really them, it had to be! Either that or she'd fallen asleep while on watch. Breathing deeply to calm her unexpected nerves, she gave her arm a quick pinch. Ouch.

This was real.

Somehow, by some marvellous feat of magic, the twins and Lee had reached her in the depths of a forest, sheltering near the Wye. And not just her – they addressed everyone.

As she waited for the voices to come again (whole body trembling in anticipation for hearing her twin's laughter one more time), her mind tumbled over itself in thought.

The boys were putting themselves in danger, surely? But it was such an admirable contribution to make; there were few better suited for building the morale of the populace as those three menaces. Could they be tracked? Were the Death Eaters even aware of this _Potterwatch_idea?

_"Apologies again, dear listeners."_

They were back! Hermione strained her ears, trying to tell the speakers apart.

_"Rapier's ears have been thoroughly boxed."_Oh, that was Lee, she was sure of it. She could picture quite distinctly the cheshire-cat grin he was probably wearing, dreadlocks bouncing as he spoke.

_"He's promised no more mooning tonight over our lovely travelling lass."_And that voice, she struggled to place. Fred and George sounded so similar: the only way she'd ever told them apart was in the butterflies she felt around _her_twin.

_"Aye, the whole of wizarding Britain is rooting for Wonder-Sprog and co. No need for long faces this evening,"_said Lee cheerfully. _"Royal's here now to explain just why we can all feel positive for once."_

_"Thank you, River,"_and there was the baritone of Kingsley, speaking calmly and with astuteness unrivalled. His words soothed, though she hardly caught more than snippets – _"...attempt on Muggle lives in Toxteth thwarted by the courage and quick-wit of a pair of nearby wizards... "_

From what she could tell, the wizarding world was coping well enough while she and the boys hunted the blasted Horcruxes alone. She was surprised by the weight that seemed to be lifted as she heard of more and more lives saved, attacks foiled, Death Eaters caught.

And she let herself fall into that rare belief that maybe, if everything went okay, they could do this. Harry, Ron and herself could pull their ridiculous stunt off.

They could win this war.

She didn't notice the exuberant smile that spread across her face, stretching muscles which hadn't seen use in months. How could she notice? Fred had started to talk.

_"So, for all those who want Hogwarts__free of Death Eaters__ –__"_she heard him say.

_"And to those who think –"_ and so that was George, then?

_"Rightly –"_

_"That Muggles should be protected –"_

_"Keep each other safe, keep faith, and help Harry Potter!"_

_"Well put, Rapier ol' pal."_

_"Why thank you,"_said Fred. One lonely, salty tear threatened to escape Hermione's eyes, closed to the world around her so that she might pretend her friends were there beside her. What she wouldn't give to have his arms around her, to feel that sense of safety he gave off so naturally.

The air spluttered. The final time.

_"As always,"_announced Lee, "_before we sign off, Rapier would like to wax lyrical about his poor girlfriend, our beloved brainiac."_

_"Not my girlfriend, you git!"_She wanted to laugh, but stopped short. Brainiac: was that her?

_"Hush, it's true enough."_

_"We've read your diary,"_teased George. Then, putting on an absurd falsetto: _"'Oh! How I miss terribly the sweet bushy bevel with which I'm so inconceivably besotted!'"_

_"Fine,"_Fred grumbled. "_I've a message to_everyone's _favourite brave, strong, beautiful woman."_He continued more softly,_ "__You're doing great. Keep them safe. I miss you."_

Triumph.

She'd not felt so light since the summer, when his lips had grazed hers so delicately and he'd looked at her with such want. He missed her.

Her Fred missed her.

_"You heard the man. The next password will be Dorcas."_

Hermione heard nothing of Lee's closing words though. Her heart was beating more rapidly than ever; her veins were white-hot; all her nerves were suddenly firing two dozen per minute.

He believed in her and he missed her.

There was no way she'd fail him now.


	10. Silence

**Chapter 10: Silence**

_When she needed him around, he wasn't there..._

They'd made it; they were alive. All except for Dobby, that brave, loyal, noble little creature who'd quite literally saved her life. Hermione didn't for one moment consider the truth of the situation, that Dobby's only intention, really, had been to rescue his 'master', Harry Potter. That she'd been an after-thought.

In that last vestige of schoolgirl naivety left within her, she didn't consider how her survival had been solely a result of the elf's hero-worship of her friend.

Then again, in those first three days at Shell Cottage, she didn't consider much of anything at all.

For once, Hermione Granger's mind was blank and, had she been aware of it, she would have said she enjoyed the numbness – it kept her from feeling those hands all over her, that breath against her collarbones, the endless, tortuous pain.

Resting against the pillows of Bill and Fleur's cozy sofa, she sighed.

Then coughed.

Then winced.

Harry and Ron were expecting too much of her, thinking she'd be up in a few days ready to fight, ready to hunt Horcruxes again. Never mind that her body still ached and stung and burned all over. No, that she could handle with pain potions and pastes.

But the thoughts? The nightmares?

The itching, crawling, scratching feel, in the dark of night, of those monsters' claws dragging down the skin of her stomach and up the inside of her thighs – it wouldn't go away.

Not even in her cherished numbness, not really. She could still feel it, was still very much aware that she was shaking with revulsion at phantom violations.

She hated it.

In a way, Hermione thought bitterly, she hated herself as well. Hated herself for deserving it, for being born dirty. Hated herself for getting caught, getting separated, not fighting back.

_Where had that bravery gone, _she wondered,_ that invincible feeling Fred's radio broadcast had inspired? Where was that girl? _She let out one short, harsh bark that could have been laughter, could have been a sob. _Did it even matter anymore?_

"'Ermione?" called Fleur, entering the airy living room with a tray filled with steaming goblets. "Eet eez time for 'ur potions."

Looking up with wide doe eyes, Hermione gave a small nod. Nothing more. She wasn't ready to speak yet, didn't want to, couldn't. She couldn't face hearing her own voice again, a voice that had betrayed her under Cruciatus, had cried and screamed and cursed. A coward's voice.

Fleur nodded back, and Hermione's eyes dropped instantly down to the worn wooden floorboards below.

And as first one potion, then another, and then a third were passed to her in silence, her eyes remained fixed on the swirling patterns made in the dust by Fleur's movements.

"'Un more, ma petite," the French woman soothed, raising one final goblet, brimful with a thick, vividly red concoction that bubbled ominously. Grimacing, Hermione swallowed it all, eyes watering and legs trembling something violent.

"Je sais, ma petite," whispered Fleur. "I know."

And then she was off to find her husband, and Hermione was left all alone once more.

She couldn't wrap her head around it any more, what had become of her life. How had it gotten to the stage where she was reminding herself constantly that her pain was for the greater good. _'Greater good'_: that had been Grindlewald's line.

Had she the strength, she might have managed a mocking snort. Even now, she was giving herself a damned history lesson.

History of a world that didn't want her, of a world that was trying to forcibly remove her tainted blood. And she was letting them win by giving into those stupid nightmares.

But they were more than nightmares. They were –

_Knock. Knock._

_Knock._

Normally, Hermione rued, she would have been brimming with curiosity as to who would be knocking at the door. She would have been wondering why they hadn't used the floo, if it was perhaps Harry locked out or Ron back from his trek along the beach already. Normally, she would definitely have cared about the intruder.

But she was tired, and she was empty – soulless – and so she didn't wonder.

She simply lay as still as ever, on her side under a thin summer blanket, face emotionless and left arm well and truly concealed beneath the covers. Same as always. Same as she thought it might always be.

As she stared at the ceiling, the knocks began again.

_Knock._

_Knock. _

_Knockknockknockknockknock!_

Frantic pounding now. She heard hurried footsteps, Fleur's unmistakable high heels clacking against the floorboards, then felt the magic of the wards shifting slightly around her.

A creak, a sudden draft in the room, a click, and silence.

Then –

"Where is she, Fleur?"

Well bugger if that menacing growl wasn't damn well near unforgettable.

_Fred._

"Zee eez not well, Fred," she heard Fleur reply.

"I don't care," grunted her twin again. "Where is she?"

"Zee would not want –"

The door crashed open. Footsteps bashed against the floorboards, a familiar, homely face came into view.

And still Hermione didn't move, didn't blink, didn't react in any way.

Around her, the dust swirled and danced and glinted more violently than ever, and the air grew heavy all of a sudden. She wanted to hold her breath, nod, do _anything _to acknowledge Fred, but at the same time all she wanted, more than anything she'd ever desired before, was to disappear.

He was another piece of her life she wasn't ready to face yet. Not in this state. Fred deserved more than her half-hacked shell.

A pair of those bright blue eyes she adored so much swam before her, and she wanted to scream. Wanted to, but couldn't.

All she managed was a slight shudder. Pathetic, she told herself in anger.

Even more pathetic that she should have been frightened by his presence. If there was anyone out there left in the Wizarding world who didn't wish her harm, who wouldn't intentionally hurt her, it was her twin.

And yet those eyes, while so different, were still so much the same as the blue that had bore down on her vindictively in the Malfoy's parlour, while she'd struggled and cried and fought and... given up.

It was shame that caused her first real movement since Fred had entered the room. In one slow, deliberate sweep, her gaze dropped to the sheet draped over her bruised legs, and her arm tucked itself more closely into her side.

She heard a scuffle, then, his shoes tapping the floorboards as he made to crouch beside her. Still, she focused on the stitching covering her, hiding her flaws, protecting her from the truth of her... condition.

Fleur had promised the scars would heal eventually. The ones on her torso and legs, that was. No one dared to mention what would become of the very obvious scrawl across her arm, and in her more aware moments, Hermione was well aware of the meaning of their silence.

"Mina?" she heard his gruff whisper, and a part of her yearned to answer. Maybe he could make her better?

Moments passed, the room completely still save for the sharp ticks of the clock by the door.

"Please Mina," he said again. "Please, you're scaring me."

If she had been whole, her heart might have broken for the pain in his voice. As it was, she felt nothing. She wished to – nothing would have made her happier than if she could feel that same warm rush of hope he usually inspired – but the numbness had too tight a grip.

All her life, she'd wondered what it would be like to be able to switch her mind, her emotions off. Now that she had, she couldn't even feel to enjoy it.

But then came the wetness.

Splash. Once, twice. One more.

Unsurely, she stretched out a finger, noticing the strange burning sensation just above the knuckle.

Splash.

Hermione recoiled, confused and disorientated as the fog that had kept her sanity since the rescue gradually lifted and her surroundings grew ever more clearer.

The colour of the walls were first to catch her attention, a steady teal colour. Next came the scratchiness of the blanket, its coarseness rubbing over her wounds rather unpleasantly as she continued to extend her finger.

And then, Hermione's searching eyes found Fred.

Bent double, face a ghostly white, he was staring at her with a line of tears creeping down his long nose, dripping onto the skin of her hand. He looked, she thought, as though he was feeling everything on her behalf – so many emotions were held in that ashen face, her stomach lurched.

"Fred," she tried, but her croak was barely audible and she worried he wouldn't hear. "I'm sorry."

Her strength was all used up, and as she closed her eyes against another wave of nausea, she found herself slipping away into yet another nightmare. Fleur's potions were taking effect too soon.

As she left consciousness, she could have sworn she heard an "I love you" from somewhere close, but it was too late. Greyback's beastly face was already forming in front of her and the sensation of his clammy breath against her chest was returning too quickly.

Just as she went limp, giving in to the terror of the dream, an angel's whisper found her: "My brave, noble Mina, I won't leave you again."

And when, two hours later, she awoke drenched in sweat and yelling until her lungs were scorched, he was gone.

That was it, the final straw. Finally, shaking off the last of her pride, Hermione did as she had longed to since she had found herself at Shell Cottage. She cried.

**A/N **Well then, apologies first of all for the obscene wait between chapters 9 and 10. University gets in the way. Apologies also if anyone thinks this is too exaggerated a reaction from Hermione. Past experiences of less traumatic abuse fed into her character in this chapter. Perhaps its content explains why it took so long for me to get the chapter as close to perfect (in my mind) as I could. I've really appreciated the trickle of reviews I've received in the break this story took, so thank you to anyone who's stuck with me and is reading this right now; I appreciate you.

* * * Innocent Magic * * *


	11. Battle

**Chapter 11: Battle**

"It's time," called Harry, his calm voice echoing in the Room of Requirement, giving an eerie feel to the already surreal situation. This was it, Hermione thought, this was the war. It was now or never for the whole of Wizard kind.

No pressure at all, she grimaced.

The past months had not been kind; between the running, the escaping, the torture, the recovery, she'd been on the brink of insanity more times than was comfortable. It was only through the miracle of little Teddy Lupin that she felt in any way prepared to fight.

That little ray of turquoise joy deserved a safe world in which to grow up. He'd been her saviour since her breakdown the day Fred had left, a reminder that she could still do this. She could still help.

With Tonks and Professor Lupin away on duty from just about the moment Teddy was born, Hermione had volunteered to watch the wee baby, to take care of him when he cried and to fawn over him when he didn't. The responsibility – so different from her usual task of keeping her friends alive, of defeating the dark, of putting on a brave face – she had relished in it, had needed it.

And with that little child's face very firmly in mind, she steeled herself for battle. He'd been the perfect distraction from her fractured soul; now she'd repay him in the only way she could: destroying those bloody bastards who wanted her dead.

Beside her, Harry was still taking charge, face stony and determined, but fists clenched just ever so slightly.

"The professors will be securing the castle walls," he said. "DA members, we need you in the main corridors: the Entrance Hall, the bridge and the like."

Murmurs of agreement sounded around the room. They'd do whatever the Boy-Who-Lived asked of them, follow his plans blindly and without argument. Hermione knew better though; Harry was a natural born leader, obviously, but he wasn't the most strategic thinker in the room.

That was her element.

She coughed to snatch his attention, and one hundred or so pairs of eyes swiftly landed on her.

"'Mione?" Harry asked.

"I think we should send Seamus to help the professors with the barricades," she declared.

A few eyebrows were raised in surprise, but no objections, she noted with pride.

"You sure?" said Ron. "No offence, Seamus, but haven't the teachers got it covered?"

She grinned. "No one in this castle is better at explosions."

Seamus gave a mock salute, and called the names of a few students to help him, and the room was suddenly eight people lighter.

At least, until the portrait opened once more and a ragged troop of older wizards filed in. One by one, Order members not already reinforcing the school's walls made their way through the students to face Harry: Remus, Tonks, Mr Weasley, Hestia Jones... and the twins.

It had been four weeks since his almost dream-like appearance while she lay injured in Shell Cottage, but there he was. Eyes gleaming, hair long and dishevelled and wild. And his _smile_.

"'Lo, love."

"Fred!" she cried, and in one-two-three-four quick steps she was in his arms. If this was it, if this was war, she wasn't going down without knowing one more time how she felt in one of his hugs.

His hands gripped at her robes as he held her close, head buried in her curls, breath tickling the bared skin by her ear. It didn't matter that the rest of the room were still putting together battle plans, that she was needed up there next to Harry. It didn't even matter that Fred hadn't been there when she'd woken time and again during those days before she'd found her escape in child-minding.

She was alive. He was alive.

They might not both be for long.

"Mina," he sighed. His rough hands took hold of her face, giving her nowhere to look but into his eyes. "Mina, I – "

"I know," she smiled. He was sorry, he always was. So was she, to be honest. There was always guilt when you loved someone, and she'd never been so certain that she did. Love him, that was. "Don't run away before I get to say goodbye this time," she said, leaving a chaste kiss on his cheek before pulling away and re-joining the Golden Trio.

He wouldn't disappear this time, she was sure of it. He couldn't. Not when the stakes were so high and their feelings all so significant and unimportant all at the same time.

Merlin, she had to get her head on straight.

"Excuse me," she said with a slight blush when she once again stood facing the _soldiers_ under Harry's command. "Forgot myself."

It was Ron, surprisingly, who addressed her first.

"Harry was just asking about Ravenclaw's artefact," he told her. Then, more quietly so as not to be overheard, "And I'm wondering if we could still get access to the chamber for Basilisk venom."

A swell of hope rose in her chest. "Ronald Weasley, you genius."

She could have almost giggled at the way his ears turned, and she wondered if Fred handed put her under the effects of a Cheering Charm while they'd hugged.

There was a bit of movement around her, then, as Harry made to follow Luna to inspect Rowena's diadem (Hermione was secretly _sure_ the diadem was a myth, lost to history, but any suggestion was worth a shot at this stage), and Ron clapped her on the shoulder.

"So I'll head down there now, alright?" he said. He looked, and sounded, so much older than she'd ever seen him in that moment, so much more mature, and she nodded.

"Be safe."

"Meet you here in half an hour. If I'm not back," he shot her a lopsided grin, "Then you can start worrying, 'Mione."

And he was gone too.

That left her in charge, she supposed.

Casting a _Sonorous _charm, she took control in the way she'd so often admired in Harry.

"Weasley twins, Lee: you can cause mayhem with Peeves, right? Adults should set up outside the castle, then DA, like Harry said: Entrance Halls and major arteries. Everyone else: first and second floor. They think they've caught us by surprise, but we're as ready as we were ever going to be. We're stronger than they give us credit for. We've got on our side the fact we're fighting for what's right."

Seeing the last glimmers of doubt fading from their eyes, Hermione felt triumphant.

"As some fine friends have told us all along," she added for good measure, "Keep each other safe. Keep the faith. Help Harry bloody Potter finish this. Good luck!"

The room seemed to take that dismissal mad sprang into action. Small groups began leaving as quickly as they could without making it obvious just how any fighters the Light side had.

A few came up to wish Hermione well, tell her how good it was to see them all again. Lavender Brown went so far as to give her an air kiss, the bloody mental witch. She began wondering just how bad Hogwarts must have been under the rule of the Carrows for her – bossy, bushy-haired, bookworm Granger – to be met with so many positive comments from her classmates.

And finally, when the hubbub had calmed and everyone had made their way to their battle stations, there he was. Fred.

He stood almost bashfully two feet away from her.

"Mina," he said again, and a sudden claw of terror gripped at her chest. What if he never said her name after today? What if he never said anything?

"Don't, Fred," she began, and she saw him open his mouth to protest. " Just, don't say anything. Not yet."

Then she smiled and stepped towards him, eyes bright and happy and filled with a feeling of freedom she'd not experienced since the last time they'd been in this situation. Since the Leaky Cauldron.

They stood for a moment, facing each other, challenging each other silently. And then they were clinging tightly together, her lips on his in a fierce battle, pressed so closely together there wasn't room for a wand to pass between.

"Mina –" tried Fred once more, desperately attacking at her neck, leaving behind a wet trail that seared in the best possible way. Merlin, she needed more of him.

"Please, Fred, I don't want you to speak," she whispered. "I've got a reason, I promise."

He gave in, kissing her instead: on the eyes, the cheeks, the throat.

Hermione took one of his hands, which had made their way to grasp at her hips, grazing the skin above her jeans tantalisingly, and turned away.

_I need privacy_, she thought. A door, a seemingly innocent, innocuous wooden door, appeared to their left.

The fireplace that lit the room was crackling peacefully, glowing mere embers now that mostly everyone had left, and for a moment they were still. The night sky outside threatened an impending fight, a fight to the death, but all Hermione saw was the now, the man she'd loved since she was fifteen, who she knew loved her back just as fiercely.

"Fred Weasley," she said, voice deep and breaking with the emotions of the hour.

Together, they nudged open the newly appeared door, and as it shut behind them with a gentle _click_, he kissed her again – and again, and again. Clinging to the other like the children they had once been, the children they could never be again after this war, they lost themselves in the hold of the other.

"Mina," he groaned, as her mouth moved lower down his chest and her hands fumbled at the clasp of his jeans.

From under thick eyelashes, she looked at him, determined and trembling.

"I love you," he assured her, hands tangled in that mess of hair he adored so much.

"I love you too," she replied. "I – _Fred_."

Despite the war that raged around them, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact any number of their friends might not live to see tomorrow's dawn, they gave in. All the want and lust and need of the past few years; all the terror they'd felt and the anger that had weighed upon them. All those nights she awoke and he wasn't there. All those nights he awoke and had no way of knowing if she was safe. It all came out in hot, frantic touches in the privacy of the small bedroom the room had provided for them.

If anyone were to return to the Room of Requirement over the next twenty minutes, they might not have noticed anything had changed. The roars that resonated through the castle's chilly corridors dwarfed the soft gasps the pair made in secret.

But when they parted, when they eventually had to go their separate ways, both knew that it was okay. Whatever was to happen that evening, they had had each other and that had made their lives to this point worthwhile.

It scared her to realise, but Hermione was, at eighteen, ready to face death head on. And she was ready to lose, if that was what fate had planned for her.

Choking, stumbling over her words, she whispered one final message to her best friend. "Be safe."

"You too."

* * *

><p><strong>AN **Thank you for all the reviews of the last chapter - I'm really excited people are still reading this, and are enjoying it! This is almost it for 'Too Bloody Noble', because I've gotten it to the stage that it's one short chapter from being ready to hand over to its sequel. That most likely won't be written and posted until the summer, so I hope this chapter has rounded the story off well enough to keep you all satiated until July! If anyone can identify the book from which I took parts of the kissing scene (and I'll give you a clue that it's from the best writer of kissing scenes in all children's literature), then maybe I'll start posting the sequel in June. The plot is almost all planned out, but while this story came straight from the lyrics of Nina (Ed Sheeran), I haven't got a song that fits the follow-up, which makes writing it all a little trickier. Your reviews keep me smiling, so to anyone who replies to this chapter, you're fantastic and I'm sure I'd love you if we ever met.

* * * Innocent Magic * * *


	12. Letter

Chapter 12: Letter

Three months. It had been three months to the day since the battle had ended, the Light had won, and those bastards in masks had been defeated.

More importantly, it had been three months since, since –

Hermione forced back the sob that clogged her throat and stung her eyes. She couldn't think of him, not today. There were more important things to be done, people that had to be put before her and her grief.

She grappled helplessly with her thoughts, looking for something to distract her from the breathlessness she felt whenever she remembered Fred's bright blue eyes and rough hands. The way they'd touched her in those stolen moments, barely an hour before –

_Focus_, she chastised herself. Sometimes it seemed that all she'd done since the war had been won was scramble for distractions. Teddy Lupin had been a fantastic way to lose herself, an orphaned child in need of babysitters, in the charge of a grieving grandmother in need of help.

Hermione had thrown herself into caring for the child, and it had been as wonderful for her recovery as it had all that time ago with Bill and Fleur.

But the little boy was a metamorphogus, just like his mother had been, and Hermione had made the mistake of trying to share her distraction with George Weasley.

The man felt her grief several times magnified, and had retreated into himself on the sofa of her flat (bought in the weeks after the fight, around the corner from St Mungos, it was a place Fred had never been and so it was _safe_, according to George).

And when Teddy had seen George, had found that vivid red hair and those eyes still so intense with colour, the child hadn't been able to resist.

A stray tear fell as Hermione was forced to remember the miniature Weasley twin she'd found in her arms, the little Lupin looking just as she'd once dreamed her own children might. Children with that genius of a man, that man who loved her as fiercely as he did anything.

That was all a fantasy now.

So Teddy Lupin was no longer the escape from her thoughts he'd once been. Now he was just another painful reminder.

Pulling a simple summer dress over her head, Hermione prepared herself for the meetings she had lined up for the day. It was time to move on, she'd decided. The Wizarding world was in recovery, and she had a duty to help it along. She had a duty to all the Muggleborns who'd been persecuted while she'd survived, to all the Half-bloods and Purebloods who'd died on behalf of her and her rights.

She ran through her list quickly:

_Interview with Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures._

_Interview with Department of Magical Law Enforcement._

_Lunch with Harry._

_Pick up food for Andromeda and Mrs Weasley._

_St Mungos._

That would keep her busy and moving until bedtime, she hoped. If not, she could always pop in to visit Luna under the guise of checking on her injuries – the girl was very good at ignoring the elephant in the room, if she knew that was what you wanted.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, as she did every morning those days: it was time to face to world.

George was passed out drunk on her sofa as she made her way through the living room, heading for the floo. His arm was hanging limply off the side, his breathing laboured, sounding painful. Her heart broke.

"George," she whispered, giving his limp form a small shake. "George, wake up a moment."

His response came in the form of a grunt.

Hermione ran her hand through his overgrown hair in that comforting way her mother had always used when she was younger.

"You can't keep this up, George," she sighed. "We need you back."

Another grumble.

"I'm heading out for the day, but I'll be right back if you need anything. There's some leftovers in the kitchen, if you get hungry."

She smoothed down her dress and made to stand, as George shifted beside her to bury his face in the cushions of the seat. The room fell back into the eerie, horrid quiet that had followed her since May.

"Right," she steered herself. "Well, bye th-"

Her attention was caught mid-thought by a tapping against the window, the unmistakeable noise of talons against glass. No one would be sending her messages at this hour – Harry would be sleeping in late, Ginny nestled comfortably into him, and the Ministry wasn't due to open for another ten minutes. The rest of the Weasleys, well, they were respecting her's and George's need for space for the moment, and only tried to contact her every few days.

She'd had her floo call with Mrs Weasley just yesterday.

With some trepidation, Hermione let the plain looking barn owl into her sitting room. The bird landed with a _thump_ on George's shoulder and shot her an inquisitive look as she startled herself with a smile.

Merlin, it had been a while since she'd found something genuinely funny. What would Fred say, if her saw her so down?

It didn't matter, she was reminded bitterly. He wasn't here to judge this time.

And with that cheery thought bringing her back to Earth as thoroughly and suddenly as the smile that had raised her, she tore open the parchment secured to the bird's leg.

_My most beautiful, brave and bloody noble Mina, _it began.

Bugger.

Her head started spinning. Black dots formed in front of her eyes. This wasn't – this couldn't –

But there was no mistaking it: only Fred addressed her as such. Could it be that - ? She conjured a glass of water and downed it before reading further, letting the drink soothe the pounding in her head and heart as her fingers delicately traced the familiar scrawl.

_My most beautiful, brave and bloody noble Mina,_

_If you're reading this letter, then it's been three months since I last opened my eyes. Ruddy awful prospect, not getting to see your Godric-awful bird's-nest hair for twelve weeks. _

_I joke, and you know it. I just hope I had the chance to tell you how much you mean to me. If I didn't, well, no, I'm sure you know it. I'm going to kiss you, you know, the next time I see you. You'd better kiss back. _

_Wait, that's not right. You're reading this in the future, so I guess what I should really be saying is that I hope it was a fantastic kiss. It probably was; you seemed to enjoy yourself last time._

_Imagine me winking, okay? Brilliant._

_Dear Merlin, this is more awkward to write than I thought it would be. There's a fair bit to tell you, but as much as I know you love reading, that's probably not the right way to do this. Sorry, Mina – this is going terribly, isn't it?_

_I'll get on with it then, and leave out all my fantasies of you in my bed in a pair of sexy little stockings... off topic again, but I miss you. I'm sitting here thinking about you that day at Bill's, and I miss you. I didn't mean to not visit you again, but, well – I'm bad for you, Mina._

_I need you to know, now, that you're the greatest thing that happened to me (maybe aside from George being born a few minutes after me, but it's a close call). But if you're reading this, then I don't think I'm coming back, and no matter how big-headed this sounds, I need you to try and forget me._

_If I'm never coming home, Mina, I need you to go and leave me behind as a memory – an incredibly handsome and charming memory, but a memory nonetheless. Go make a new best friend. Go... kiss other men. Don't spend your time worrying about how they're not as great at snogging as me, because I'm pretty sure that nobody is. _

_I asked George if this letter was a good idea, and he laughed in my face. Told me I'm a nutter, that we'd all defeat Moldy and live forever wreaking havoc. _

_Am I being pessimistic, thinking about 'what if's? _

_If I don't make it, please look after George. He's a Weasley twin, which means he'll need you just as much as I do. _

_That's it, I think. Any more and I'll start acting like a sap and writing sonnets about your perfect lips and your legs and you'd hit me if you knew what else I'm thinking of._

_I love you, Mina. Make me proud, okay?_

_Yours completely,_

_The dashingly attractive Frederick Gideon Weasley._

She choked. Bugger it: bugger Fred and his wit and his charm and his knack of saying exactly what she needed to hear.

'_Forget me'_. Easier bloody said then done, she rued. Andromeda had told her that love came and went, that the pain would ease and a broken heart would always mend. Her heart wasn't just broken, though. It was removed, gone.

How was she supposed to leave Fred behind and move on with life?

Hermione heard George begin to stir behind her, his moan so similar to Fred's and yet so much more... disheartened.

And with that, she was resolute. Maybe she couldn't do everything Fred had asked of her, but she could do this. She was invigorated and she was unwavering: if her twin needed her to look after George, then she would do so and she would do it well. Who knew, maybe it would heal her to do this for the man she'd given so much to.

"Come on George," she said, turning to take his hand. "I think we should go see him today."

"You sure?" His voice was dry, cracking with lack of use, but there was a bit of hope there too.

"Yeah," she replied. "I think it's time to start looking for closure."

She'd make Fred proud, Hermione thought, at peace – _just a bit _– at last.

**_A/N _**This is it, the end of 'Mina'/'Too Bloody Noble'. I tried to leave it so that it pleases both those who want the story to follow DH and kill off my favourite Weasley, and those who quite rightly wish JK had let him live. For that second group, stick around for the sequel this summer - Fred will be making a return! Please let me know what you thought of this story overall, what you'd like to see in the sequel (if you even fancy reading it after wading through some of the mud I've written here), and if you thought at any point I was too sentimental or too... I don't know. Anything at all - I love reviews! Thanks for sticking with me, and I hope the waiting was worth it.

All my love,

* * * Innocent Magic * * *


	13. AN

**Final Note:**

Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed Too Bloody Noble! The amount of positive response was really surprising, and really helpful while beginning the sequel.

_Shooting Star is now up and running. _

If you're that strange breed of Harry Potter fan who prefers Fred Weasley remain dead, you probably won't want to read it. If, like me, you like to pretend he lived, read it! Then tell me what you thought of it maybe?

I'll also be rewriting and continuing my Jily and Rose/Scorpius fics this summer, as I now have little better to do. Oh, and writing my own real life story.

All the best,

* * * Innocent Magic * * *


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